


Blurred Lines

by aisle_one



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Consent Issues, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 08:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4600446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aisle_one/pseuds/aisle_one
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He shouldn’t be here.  He reeks of whisky and cigarettes and day old sweat and - he shouldn’t be here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blurred Lines

He shouldn’t be here. He reeks of whisky and cigarettes and day old sweat and - he shouldn’t be here.

His eyes skim the room. Computer monitors are turned off. Seats are emptied. Even the console where Q stands, perpetually on guard, is barren, and perhaps it’s luck. For a moment, Bond feels relief, fate seeming to have decided the circumstance for him, but then a muffled thud comes from a darkened area, followed by a string of curses. The diction is unmistakable and want immediately seizes from the pit of Bond’s belly, conditioned to the subtle quaver that underscores Q’s rounded vowels. Yet, a sliver of doubt slinks into his mind. Indecision might have waylaid him, but the hallway to the back room is short, and the time it takes to travel it is not nearly enough to make an effective deterrent.

A lone office is lit - the dumping ground, as it was known to the agents, or purgatory for broken equipment salvaged from missions, where each piece is mourned and inspected by Q like a wounded pet before it’s sent for repair. Bond stops at the doorway. Q is hunched over a long, cluttered table, arrested by a tiny clump of wires. He frowns in serious concentration, then holds the thing up to the light, turning it between his agile, slender fingers. The movement causes the cuff of his sweater to slip down and expose his thin wrist - and the faint bruise on the inside, easily passing as a consequence of Q’s clumsiness if it was ever questioned. 

Bond coughs.

Q startles and drops the thing in his hand. “Shit,” he says and glares at Bond over his shoulder, but doesn’t turn. “What are you doing here?” A reasonable question, but the twitch in Q’s cheek betrays his pretense at innocence. His eyes are challenging as they meet Bond’s - this is Q’s territory and they have an understanding. “We aren’t scheduled to meet until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Don’t you mean later today?” Bond points to the clock on the wall. He pulls out a mangled earpiece from his pocket and tosses it to Q. It’s several missions old. “Forgot to turn that in.” The door slides shut behind him. Three steps in and he is next to Q. The small of his back is warm.

“Don’t,” Q hisses, stiffening. He looks meaningfully back at the clock - the camera inside it - and edges away from Bond’s hand. “And you stink.” His nose wrinkles. “You should go home, 007.”

“Only if you’re offering to escort me.” The quip was meant to be a tease, reminiscent of their normal banter, but it comes out too gruff, a shade too close to a command. 

“Not in the least,” Q says. His lips thin. He sets the earpiece down and walks toward the door. “We’re not doing this.” Not here. Here is where Q drew the line. On the contrary - Bond steps in front of him, causing Q to abruptly stop. His eyes flick upward at Bond’s, green clashing with blue, wary, but calculating. Like a cornered animal, he scans left, right, though lingers too long at the latter, and Bond is faster. Before Q’s decision has a chance to set, Bond is advancing, forcing Q to stumble backward. Advance and retreat - and the awkward dance continues until Q is crowded in the space between the end of the table and a steel shelf, until his back collides with the wall and Bond is nestled between his splayed legs. 

“Camera won’t catch us here,” Bond says, grinding emphatically against Q’s groin. After all, lines are meant to be blurred. Renegotiated. He licks at Q’s closed, defiant mouth. “Open up, darling.” He doesn’t, of course. Q - stubborn Q - yanks at Bond’s hair, instead, and the sting of it causes Bond’s eyes to water. Skinny, little bastard and his surprising strength. Very well. If Q prefers a little rough and tumble before the main event, Bond is more than willing to indulge him. He locks a hand around Q’s neck and squeezes. The maneuver succeeds. Q’s hand falls away from Bond’s hair and scrambles to claw at Bond’s. His attempts are futile. Brawn will always guarantee Bond victory over Q, and Bond refuses to release him - not until his eyelashes are fluttering and his clawing fingers grow weak. Its with smug satisfaction when Bond finally removes his hand, and Q crumples against the wall, clutching at his neck and trembling like a spooked foal. “I don’t,” he wheezes out, “I don’t want - ”

“Don’t you?” Bond murmurs into his ear, because despite his protests, Q’s arousal is unmistakable. His prick is stiff against Bond’s, and after a dip past his trousers, Bond’s fingers come away wet with pre-come. “I beg to differ, Quartermaster.” 

Q twists his face away when Bond brings his glistening fingers to his lips. “A biological reaction hardly amounts to consent,” he says through gritted teeth. Undeterred, Bond finds an alternative use for them. He rucks up Q’s sweater and shirt, and smears the slick over a flat nipple. He rubs it in, watching intently as the nipple flowers beautifully to a sensitized point. Q’s body stutters when Bond’s mouth closes over it and he melts against the wall as pliant as clay. Bond takes advantage of this hard-won submission to yank down Q’s trousers and liberate his erection, the supple swell of his arse.

Q takes a dry finger beautifully. Two has him taut like a strung bow. And three - Bond has yet know, has yet to attempt it, and if they had hours and a bed instead of - the clock ticks past a quarter of four - a sliver of a wall, where Q could be properly spread, his knees coaxed past his ears and arms shackled to the bedposts, Bond might indulge the temptation. For now, he grabs Q by the hips and lifts, and -

It burns. Dear God, it burns, and it’s just the very tip of his cock, but - good God. Q jerks and instinctively contracts around him, a fit too small. He bears down as if to expel Bond from his body, and a thick, wet gasp escapes him. His face screws up. A tear slides down. He shakes so hard the steel shelf next to them quakes in sympathy.

“James,” Q whines, an agonized plea that sobers Bond immediately. He doesn’t pull out, but straightens, relieving Q of his weight and signaling to Q that he’d heard him. They have no safe word. They don’t need one. 

Bond cups Q’s face and strokes his cheeks. “Shall we stop?” he asks. Q licks his lips, chews on the bottom one as he considered Bond’s question. After a moment, he shakes his head. “No, just - ” he twists his wrists. Taking the cue, Bond lowers Q’s arms and loops them around his neck. He spares a caress down a forearm before his freed hand settles at the nape of Q’s neck. A gentle tug forward and Q obliges, finally accommodating the kiss that Bond has been desperate for. “All right?” Bond whispers, when they part. Q nods. It’s barely perceptible, but Bond has his permission.

And - oh, yes, that’s it. It’s a slight yielding that Q’s body surrenders, and while resistance lingers, Bond is able to inch in. He pauses when another great tremor overwhelms Q. The interlude allows for a quick kiss to Q’s temple, a sweep of the hair that had fallen in his eyes, and after he’s adjusted, he nods again, this time more determined. 

Bond doesn’t complete his intrusion. Instead, he withdraws, a slow, deliberate drag of his cock against hot, clinging skin until he’s nearly pulled out, then he eases back in, just the head, stopping short at a shallow thrust. Again, he does it, and Q writhes. And again - again and again, until Q is a quivering mess against him, stomach muscles contracted under Bond’s hand, arms on either side braced for each time he propels his hips to chase Bond’s prick when it retreats. “Please,” he pants out, “Jesus, please, for fuck’s sake.” So an upward thrust, Bond slides in, sheathed to the hilt. They groan simultaneously.

“Fuck,” Bond hisses, the pleasure-pain singeing his senses. It’s nearly too much. “Don’t,” Bond says, when Q shifts. “Don’t move, not yet.” He doesn’t listen. Of course, Q doesn’t listen. He rotates his hips and grinds up. Sparks burst behind Bond’s shut eyelids. Too soon, the rush of orgasm sweeps down, down to his toes, which curl painfully in his shoes, and he’s plowing into Q like a teenager with a hair trigger libido. Q has no choice but to follow, with a final, exceptional shiver that rattles his teeth. 

“Good?” Bond asks, when he has breath back.

“Very,” Q answers, tipping his head down for a kiss.


End file.
